And I’m not just talking about the ones that get lost in the dryer.
Every morning when I get out of bed I look for the socks, the big, fuzzy, socks I’ve worn the day before, to put on again. And nine times out of ten, there is only one of them lying on the floor.
Why? Where does the other one go? Is there a sock hop each night in some dim corner of our house and only one sock makes it back before dawn, while the other, too much to drink or seduced away, is luxuriating somewhere in illicit bliss?
I pick up my slacks of the day before and shake them. Nothing. I then sift through the layers of clothes piled on the chair. The Sock is not there.
So, sighing, because the socks have defeated me again, and it being so early in the morning I don’t have the determination to persist in the searching, I open my dresser drawer and detach a sock from its mate. I try to match it to the dutiful sock—the one that made it home in time—in terms of weight and fluff, but of course it is not the same. I put the socks on, keenly aware that these two socks are not meant to be together. Aware that I have just split up a happily mated pair of socks to force one to be with this neglected, cuckolded sock. And that just doesn’t seem right somehow.
But what can you do.